Aurora POV:

Ilene didn't wait for a response. She charged into the room in her stilettos, making a direct line for me.

Ethan reacted instantly. He took a wide step forward, using his massive frame to physically block the space between Ilene and me.

Ilene didn't stop. She threw herself directly into Ethan's arms, her hands gripping his suit lapels in a death hold as tears immediately flooded her face.

I stood frozen in place. I watched my husband embrace another woman on our fifth anniversary. The spasms in my stomach twisted into a sickening knot.

Ethan's large hand moved to Ilene's back, rubbing it in soothing circles. His voice dropped to a level of softness I had never heard him use with me. He asked her why she wasn't resting in the hospital.

It was his subconscious double standard. To him, Ilene was fragile glass that needed protecting, while I was an unbreakable warrior who needed nothing.

Ilene turned her head slightly from his chest. With red-rimmed eyes, she pointed a shaking finger at me and shrilly accused me of occupying a position that didn't belong to me.

I crossed my arms over my chest. A mocking smirk tugged at the corner of my lips. I coldly reminded her that I was his legal wife.

The moment Ilene heard the words "legal wife," she acted as if she had been struck by lightning. She began to hyperventilate violently, pressing both hands over her ears.

Ethan whipped his head around and glared at me. He growled a harsh command, telling me to shut up and stop triggering her condition.

My heart sank completely to the bottom of my chest. I realized then that the truth meant absolutely nothing to this man.

Outside the open doors, a terrified waiter pushed a second serving cart to the threshold, too afraid to step inside.

Resting on top of the cart was a ceramic tureen of French lobster bisque, brought straight from the kitchen. It was still boiling.

Ilene's peripheral vision caught the cart. A flash of pure, calculated madness flickered in her eyes.

She had clawed her way up from the bottom of the underworld. She knew exactly how to use environmental chaos to her advantage.

Ilene suddenly shoved Ethan away. Feigning a complete emotional breakdown, she acted as if she were trying to flee the room and bolted toward the door.

Ethan immediately spun around to chase her, turning his back to me completely.

I frowned. My instincts flared, acutely aware that Ilene's trajectory wasn't aimed at the hallway. She was aiming directly for the cart.

Ilene crashed hard into the silver cart. The metal lid clattered to the floor, and a thick cloud of scalding steam instantly billowed into the air.

The waiter stumbled backward in horror, desperately trying to keep the cart from tipping over.

Ilene spun around. With her bare hands, she grabbed the sides of the ceramic tureen filled with boiling soup.

The extreme heat instantly turned her fingers a bright, angry red, but she gritted her teeth and refused to let go.

I registered the danger a second too late. I instinctively stepped backward, but the heel of my shoe caught on the thick edge of the rug.

Ethan reached Ilene's side. He stretched out his hands, trying to pry the burning tureen from her grip.

Ilene dodged his hands with surprising agility, her eyes locked dead onto mine.

She screamed at the top of her lungs that because I existed, Ethan refused to marry her.

I steadied my footing. I stared at her with ice in my veins and warned her to put the soup down, or she would face the consequences.

It was a mafia heiress's final ultimatum, dripping with the promise of blood.

Ilene didn't stop. Instead, an eerie smile stretched across her face, as if my threat was exactly what she had been waiting for.

She hoisted the heavy tureen and violently hurled the boiling lobster bisque straight at me.

The orange-red liquid formed a deadly arc in the air, radiating a pungent seafood aroma and a wave of searing heat.

My pupils shrank to pinpricks. I threw my left arm up to shield my face.

Ethan's eyes tracked the flying liquid, and his brain made a split-second, instinctual choice.

"Go to hell, you thief occupying his side!"

Aurora POV:

The boiling bisque slammed into my chest and left arm without an ounce of mercy.

The extreme heat instantly burned through the expensive silk of my dress. The fabric melted, fusing directly onto my tender skin.

A muffled groan of sheer agony tore from my throat. My body trembled violently as the force of the liquid drove me back several steps until my spine collided with the edge of the dining table.

I bit down on my lower lip so hard I tasted copper, refusing to scream. It was the endurance training carved into my bones by my family.

A few stray drops of the splashing soup landed on the back of Ilene's hand. She immediately let out a bloodcurdling shriek.

In that exact moment, Ethan didn't rush toward his wife who had just taken the brunt of the boiling liquid. Instead, he spun around and pulled the screaming Ilene tightly into his protective embrace.

He frantically grabbed her hand, inspecting the minuscule red spots on her skin, and roared at the waiters to bring ice immediately.

I leaned heavily against the table. The excruciating pain made my vision blur, but the sight of them clinging to each other pierced my eyes with absolute clarity.

The literal burning of my flesh collided violently with the absolute, freezing coldness spreading through my soul.

I looked down at my chest. It was a mangled mess. The skin was already blistering, oozing clear fluid through the ruined silk.

The restaurant manager rushed into the room in a blind panic, flanked by security guards and carrying a first-aid kit.

When the manager saw the horrific state of my chest, all the color drained from his face. He rushed forward, reaching out to help me.

Ethan intercepted him. He snatched the ice pack straight out of the manager's hands and carefully, tenderly pressed it against Ilene's hand.

Then, Ethan turned his head. He looked at me with a gaze so full of impatience and coldness it felt like a physical blow.

He opened his mouth and blamed me. He demanded to know why I had to provoke a mentally fragile patient and cause such an accident.

He was a dictator. He was so accustomed to blaming others for his own lack of control.

My heart stopped beating for a full second. I opened my mouth, but I realized I didn't have a single ounce of strength left to argue with him.

I pushed away the waiter who was trying to support my weight. Using every bit of willpower I possessed, I stood up straight on my own.

The fused silk tore at my raw flesh with every millimeter I moved, sending drilling pain through my nervous system. But I kept my spine perfectly straight.

Ilene buried her face in Ethan's chest. A victorious smirk flashed across her lips before she forced out a sobbing, tearful apology in my direction.

I didn't even look at her. My eyes were locked entirely on Ethan's familiar, yet completely foreign face.

I raised my right hand. Slowly, deliberately, I slid the five-carat diamond ring off my left ring finger.

Ethan saw my movement. His brows slammed together, and he snapped at me, asking what crazy stunt I was pulling now.

I placed the ring down on top of the ink-stained separation agreement. The diamond hit the table with a sharp, final clink.

I didn't shed a single tear. The love that had burned in my eyes for five years turned into dead ash in that exact moment.

I turned my back to him. Dragging my severely injured body, I walked step by step toward the open doors.

Out in the hallway, the wealthy VIP guests from the other rooms were peeking out, whispering and pointing.

I ignored every single one of them. I kept my head held high, walking like a defeated but absolutely unyielding queen.

Ethan watched my resolute back. His heart suddenly gave a strange, inexplicable twinge, and he took half a step forward to follow me.

Ilene instantly sensed his hesitation. She let out a pathetic moan of pain and slumped heavily against him.

Ethan's footsteps halted abruptly. He bent down and scooped Ilene up into his arms.

I stepped into the elevator alone. I watched the metal doors slowly slide shut, completely severing me from that man's world.

"From today on, Ethan, you and I are dead to each other."

Aurora POV:

The sterile scent of the Vance Private Clinic ER filled my lungs. Under the blinding surgical lights, Dr. Harris wore sterile gloves, using medical scissors to carefully cut the fused silk away from my chest.

Every single snip of the blades pulled at the mangled, blistered tissue. I bit down on a rolled-up towel so hard my jaw ached, my cold sweat completely soaking the emergency bed beneath me.

Dr. Harris examined the massive spread of the second-degree burns. He inhaled sharply through his teeth and muttered a curse to God under his breath.

A nurse rushed over and quickly inserted an IV needle into the uninjured vein of my right arm, hooking me up to a strong pain pump.

As the heavy painkillers flowed into my bloodstream, the rigid tension in my muscles finally began to give way to a numb limpness.

The automatic doors of the ER chimed and slid open.

Ethan walked in. He was impeccably dressed, his custom suit lacking even a single wrinkle, looking as if the chaotic nightmare at the restaurant had never occurred.

As he stepped closer, the cloying, sweet stench of Ilene's perfume wafted off his clothes, mixing with the sharp smell of bleach.

It was the nightmare scent that had haunted my marriage, a constant reminder of the third person who was always in the room with us.

Ethan stopped beside my bed. He looked down at my bandaged chest from his towering height, his brows knitting together slightly.

He didn't ask if I was in pain. He didn't ask how I was feeling. He turned his head directly to Dr. Harris and asked if the burns would leave ugly scars.

His tone was entirely business-like and devoid of warmth. He sounded like a collector assessing the damage on a depreciating piece of art.

I closed my eyes, forcing back the pathetic, lingering moisture burning at the corners of my eyes.

Dr. Harris spoke in a strict, grim tone. He stated that without long-term skin graft surgeries, severe scarring was inevitable, making it clear just how catastrophic the damage was.

Ethan tugs irritably at his silk tie. He looked visibly dissatisfied with the answer, clearly annoyed that this situation was adding complications to his life.

He walked to the bedside table. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a heavy set of keys, and dropped them into the metal surgical tray next to my pillow. They landed with a harsh, grating clang.

In a voice that left no room for negotiation, Ethan announced that these were the keys to a high-security penthouse in Tribeca.

He ordered me to move there directly after I was discharged. He told me not to return to the Long Island estate.

I opened my eyes. I stared blankly at the glaring surgical lights above and asked in a hoarse, scraping voice, "Why?"

Ethan answered matter-of-factly. He said Ilene was heavily traumatized by the night's events, and the quiet environment of the Long Island estate was better suited for her recovery.

He added that seeing me would trigger her PTSD, so for everyone's sake, separating us physically was the best option.

I turned my head and looked at the man I had loved for five years. Suddenly, he looked terrifyingly unfamiliar.

I let out a dry sneer. "So the legal wife has to give up her marital home to accommodate a psychopath?"

Ethan's face darkened instantly. He placed both hands firmly on the metal bed rails, leaning over me with the oppressive, suffocating aura of the underground tyrant he truly was.

He was a man who demanded absolute control. He never tolerated anyone challenging his authority.

He warned me to watch my words and not make this situation any uglier than it already was.

I met his gaze without flinching. A cold, absolute fury ignited in my eyes.

I reached over with my uninjured hand and grabbed the heavy set of keys from the metal tray.

Ethan's posture relaxed slightly. A satisfied smirk began to form on his lips, assuming I had finally compromised.

I raised my arm and hurled the heavy keys violently directly at his chest.

The metal struck his expensive suit jacket and clattered onto the sterile floor with a sharp, echoing crash.

I pointed a shaking finger toward the door, spitting out the words with every ounce of strength I had left.

"Take your charity and get out!"